


And It's Goin' Fast, And...

by gala_apples



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boats and Ships, Bucket List, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:46:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has a bucket list and a sad best friend. Danny has random rich older friends. The fates conspire to get them laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It's Goin' Fast, And...

**Author's Note:**

> After watching every episode of Teen Wolf in under a week and telling my best friend I shipped everyone/everyone, "i could even write, like....Stiles and Danny on a yacht!" she replied with "do it." And so I did.

Stiles has a bucket list. The average person might say _Why Stiles? Who do you think you are, Jack Nicholson?_ to which he’ll either do a spot on Heeeeeeere’s Johnny impression, or shake his head sadly at the ignorance. Because bucket lists are for those who have come to terms with their impending deaths, and doesn’t that just about sum him up? He’s going to die. He’s been almost dead so many times he’s lost count. That shouldn’t happen unless you’re a firefighter, or Johnny Knoxville. And yet...

And it’s not just the supernatural stuff. There’s real life stuff too. You grow up with a sheriff, you grow up learning terrifying stats about texting and driving, and the frequency of household incidents. Stiles was one of the few kids in Beacon Hills happily wearing a helmet while on a bike because that whole smashing watermelons example was seared into his brain. Not to mention that while the Nogitsune was just fucking with him, he can’t rule out the potential of a neurodegenerative disease to look forward to. About a third of people diagnosed with FTD have a family history of it.

So _yes_ , he does have a bucket list so he can keep all his awesome goals in mind, and to try and cross off a few before he bites it. And anyone who doesn’t get that can, well, bite him.

Number 27 on the docket right now. Well, part of it. It’s five-fold, and this will be the third part. He’s not sure when the next part will come up. It’s the nature of a bucket list; you grab chances where you can get them. But he couldn’t have a better opportunity for part three than now, so he’s taking it. 

It’s a total fluke. This time last year they wouldn’t have been here. In fact, this time last year they were both in Beacon Hills and Allison was the one vacationing, in France. But she’s gone, and frankly just dicking around on the lacrosse field all summer would have given Scott more time to think about it, so Stiles accepted on both their behalfs when Mr FBI McCall offered Scott some oceanside bonding time. Daddy-not-dearest might not have expected Stiles to throw himself onto the invitation, but he took it pretty well. More importantly than taking it well, he mailed a pre-paid credit card to cover half the gas. 

Which is what brings Stiles here. While Call-Me-Rafe and Scott were all awkward trying to bond -and not bond, respectively- by watching reruns of CSI and lightly chatting during commercials, he googled for the nearest marina and then took off, Scott’s eyes swearing bloody vengeance for abandoning him. Whatever, better irritated and stuck with bad company than alone. Stiles feels no guilt. It’s pretty likely that they’re in the same holding pattern now, and they will be when he gets back. But Stiles is gonna put a pause on worrying about Scott’s moping because front of him is a vast landscape of white shiny hulls and white droopy masts, and he knows what he has to do.

It’s surprisingly easy to break into a boat. Onto? He’s not really going _in_ anything. The difficult part was getting into the actual marina. That involved scaling fences and a lot of stealthy skulking and silent tiptoed running, and honestly Stiles is more used to someone from the pack ripping a hole in a wall and everyone bolting directly towards the danger, weapons in hand, screaming bloody murder. Once he’s actually picked out a boat, it’s basically just double checking that the oddly shaped windows don’t have any lights signalling people before climbing up the ladder on the side.

And that’s when he gets a shock. Stiles can’t say shock of a lifetime, because hello, werewolves and kanimas and teenage stalker-serial killers, but still. He definitely did not plan for Danny Mahealani to be here when he decided to follow his impulses half an hour ago.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles knows the second he asks that he’ll get the same question fired back at him, but he has to ask. It’s too weird not to.

Except Danny’s too cool to ask the typical question. Instead Danny replies, “gay cruise.”

Stiles looks at the boat he’s stolen his way on. “This thing can fit like ten people, tops. So unless it’s a special, proudly gay Republican cruise I think that you’re telling me a falsehood, Danny.”

“The real question is why are you on a yacht six hours away from Beacon Hills?”

See? There it is. But he can have a smart ass answer too, since Danny started it. “Sad Scott plus bucket list equals crazy adventures.”

“You don’t have a bucket list.”

“I do. One hundred goals. And it’s memorised.”

Danny doesn’t dispute that claim, at least. Everyone in class knows Stiles has a crazy good memory when he can focus and cares enough to try.

“Okay, thrill me. What’s twenty one, thirty six, and seventy eight?”

“Thirty six- stay up for sixty hours. Like a whole weekend. I’ve wanted to try every since the time I couldn’t sleep or a demon would take over my soul. I dunno if you know about that.” Stiles is never quite sure how much Danny knows, between the stuff he’s been directly told and what he’s figured out on his own. “Anyway, I was almost fucked then because they shot me with a sedative. So the attempt didn’t get too far. But I wanna try again some time.”

“Getting high on sleep dep...not my favourite drug, but I get it. Next?”

“Seventy eight- pet a unicorn.”

Danny’s burst of laughter trails off quickly when Stiles smiles but doesn’t laugh to acknowledge the joke. Then he just crosses his arms over his tight red t-shirt, like he’s waiting for Stiles to explain himself. Well fine. He will then. Stiles isn’t ashamed of a single thing on his list.

“Werewolves are real. Banshees are real. Ninjas are real. Kitsune are real. Demons are real. Crazy pagan trees are real. And I have a distinct feeling that vampires are real, even if Mr Argent won’t admit it. Unicorns seem plausible, and if so, I want to pet one.”

Danny quirks his head. “You dated Malia. It might get mad and gore you.”

“So I’ll play keep away with the Stiles guts for a minute. Worth it.” It’s not like he hasn’t already been injured by basically everything on the previously stated list. He’d take a broken toe from an angry hoof to stroke a unicorn.

Danny rolls his eyes, which is a blatant lie. Everyone in the damn world would pet a unicorn if they saw one. “And twenty one?”

“Rimming.”

Stiles takes petty enjoyment from seeing Danny’s baseline calm cool collected expression fly right out the window. Too bad for him. That’s what you get when you ask personal questions of someone with no filter. Danny splutters, “What?”

“It’s a specialty option. Not a lot of people want to try it. Malia punched me and told me she wasn’t a dog when I brought it up.” It wasn’t their breakup argument, but it was definitely an argument that Stiles hadn’t expected to have when she was topless and asking if he had anything interesting in mind.

Danny smirks. “You’d have better luck with a guy, but...”

Stiles throws his arms in the air to physically express the irritation of that not being true. Because the level of irritation when it comes to his bisexuality being of no practical use is astronomical, really. “So the porn would have me think! But this one guy on Grindr blocked me when I asked.”

“You’re not gay.”

Stiles laughs. “The first time someone told me that it was my dad, the night I went to a gay bar. Funny how everyone knows what I jerk off to. Does Beacon Hills have a Big Brother problem, not just a supernatural problem? If you turn to channel seven thousand on satellite is it just me like I’m the fucking Truman Show?”

“Yeah, because your decade long crush on Lydia and getting caught in the pool with Malia practically scream cocksucker,” Danny deflects.

“Ethan graduated and you hate me, which guy was I supposed to bang in the pool?”

“I’m not the only gay guy at school!” Danny shakes his head. “Whatever. We are so off topic. What’s your thing here? Tell me it’s not stealing a boat, because I will totally narc on you.”

Stiles isn’t going to point out that he totally won that round. He’s a champ like that. Instead he explains the bucket list point in question. “Number twenty seven. Sing five Lonely Island songs in relevant places.”

“You want to-” Danny trails off. He doesn’t need to finish his question, it’s pretty obvious what the plan here is.

“Yep.”

“And then you’ll leave?”

“Scott’s probably drowning in salsa as we speak.” The more he snacks the less he has to talk to his dad.

“Fine. Go ahead.” Danny gestures.

Stiles hesitates for a second. Not because Danny’s watching, because shame know not thy name Stiles. He’s just not sure if he wants to do the whole intro. But fuck it, it’s only a few extra seconds, and it’s not like he skipped through it the thousand times he’s watched the Youtube video. It’s part of the routine.

“Woah. Free boat ride for three. Now, who should I take?” Stiles grabs his chin in a parody of thought. “Keith and... T-Pain.” 

Stiles twists halfway away from Danny and throws his hands aggressively. “Awww shit, get your towels ready, it’s about to go down. Everybody in the place in the fucking deck. But stay on your motherfucking toes. We running this, lets go!” This is where the real rap starts, and Stiles half wishes Scott was with him to do background vocals, because Danny’s still just staring at him like he’s insane. Well, fuck it. He’s got this. “I’m on a boat, I’m on a boat, everybody look at me ‘cause I’m sailing on a boat!”

Three minutes later Stiles is faking a curtsey because he just can’t stop himself. Sadly Danny doesn’t produce a bouquet of flowers out of thin air.

“You are so fucking weird Stiles.”

“Weird is my speciality. So anyway, thanks for letting me break onto your boat, and I’ll just-” Stiles takes a few steps towards the ladder to make his exit, then turns back around. “Me and Scott are here for a couple of weeks. I dunno how long you are, but if you get bored, text me? We’ll do some stupid tourist thing.”

“My sister’s lived here since I was eleven. I’ve done every touristy thing.”

Stiles has gotten friendly overtures rebuffed by Danny for as long as he’s known him. He’s never surprised when it happens again, but he probably won’t ever stop trying. There’s just something about Danny that says _be friends with this dude. no seriously. be friends_. “So don’t then. And I’ll pine until September.”

Danny sighs heavily, like he’s mortally wounded. “Look, do you want to finish your number tonight?”

“You know a marketing agency I can break into to do I’m A Boss?” It would still only be four of five, but points to Danny for trying.

“I was thinking I Just Had Sex.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Did it with Malia.”

“Stiles. Listen carefully and don’t be a moron. It’s a turn off. Do you want me to give you an opportunity to sing I Just Had Sex?”

This time it clicks. And frankly the first thing Stiles does is glance around him at the miles of boats to see if Ashton Kutcher is hovering with a camera and a dumbass grin. Stiles has always been big on Occam’s Razor, and being punked seems the most likely explanation right now. “Holy shit, what? You hate me though.”

“I don’t hate you. I find you annoying.” Danny rolls his eyes, like Stiles is a moron for not already knowing that. Excuse him for having trouble reading the minute differences in shades of dislike. “But I’m here three more weeks, and Valerie’s slutty neighbour moved away, and the bars around here all card and every one’s rejected my fake. I am unaccustomed to jerking off. Jerking off sucks.”

Stiles can see how that would be. In sophomore year Jackson got all the girls and Danny got all the boys. Now Jackson probably gets all the British girls, and Danny wants to get all the SoCal summer boys. They probably Skype about their notches on the bedpost. If he declines he’s practically letting Jackson win. That just goes against Stiles’ moral code.

So he’s not saying no to some fooling around, because aforementioned moral code doesn’t say a damn thing about getting horny in the direction of people who don’t actually like him -see the case studies of Martin, Lydia, and Hale, Derek for more information- but he’s not gonna spread his legs right this second either. He’s gonna swing for the fences first. Because if there’s anything the last two years have taught him it’s that when one insane thing happens, push for more.

“Can I stick my tongue in your ass?”

Danny winces. “Please tell me that’s not what you think dirty talk is.”

Stiles doesn’t see the problem with it, but whatever. Danny’s had some epic sex, and Stiles needs to prove his worth. If Lydia had ever dated him, it probably would have gone the same way. “I can shut up and just eat you out.”

“Good. Just gimme one second to tell Tomas to stop worrying about intruders.” 

“Wait. Who the fuck is Tomas?” The lights were off when he sneaked onto this boat, how is there a party happening inside? Derek and Chris would probably kick his ass for being so crap at recon. Not that he’ll ever, _ever_ be sharing the ‘I rimmed a dude on a yacht’ story with Mr Argent. Maybe Derek, if there ever comes a situation in which hearing it would piss him off hilariously.

Danny ignores the question. “Just gotta make sure his thumb is no longer hovering over one, with nine one already keyed in. I’ll be right back.”

Okay. Fine then. Stiles has come out just fine in dozens of situations in which he didn’t have all the information. It’s practically something to brag about on college applications. Danny heads down into the boat and Stiles stays on deck to pull out his phone to text **got lucky, getting lucky!**. That way Scott won’t worry he’d been gone too long. A few texts later -some bullshit about making sure you have a condom, like _Scott_ was the one of them who paid attention in sex ed- Stiles puts his phone back in his pocket. Then he makes to follow his fuck buddy. Danny’s fingertips on his chest stop him from actually making it inside the boat.

“You’ve decided we should fuck under the stars?” It wouldn’t be Stiles’ first time having outdoor sex. Probably not even his fiftieth. Malia’s always about five minutes from bursting out of a human dwelling and sprinting for the woods.

“More like the walls are thin down there. But honestly, don’t be surprised if he comes out to watch halfway through. Tomas is a total _voyeur perv_.” Danny finishes with a shout.

Someone -Tomas, evidently- whoooos from the inside of the boat. Stiles shrugs. The whole exhibitionism/voyeurism thing doesn’t bother him. Back in the day Scott and Allison were really showy, he and Malia fucked everywhere, and he’s pretty sure any member of the pack can smell the last time he jerked off if they come into his bedroom. Privacy is not for mere mortals like himself.

Danny strips with confidence, for which Stiles can’t blame him. He’s not built like Derek or Ethan, much too lean for that, but he still looks great. Stiles is sure when he can actually get in a club, he picks up. It isn’t until he’s watching Stiles tug off his own t-shirt that he tenses up a little. “I showered this morning. I should be... tell me if I’m not...”

“You’ll be fine. It’s not like you’re Greenberg.”

“You and Green-”

“Ugh! No!” Stiles recoils a little, because ugh, _jesus_. “I meant like you actually shower, while that grosser doesn’t.”

“And again, I seriously worry about your future partners if this is your dirty talk.”

Stiles doesn’t quip back this time. No, this time he kneels, if by kneels he means throws himself at the floor of the yacht. Never let it be said that he doesn’t have enthusiasm for the tasks he performs. He’s half expecting it to be wet from ocean spray, so it’s a bit of a surprise when nothing wicks through his jeans. The only discomfort is slight; the floor is completely unyielding. But they’ve already settled on moonlight fucking and a semi-lack of voyeurs, so he’s not about to ask for a bed now. It’s not like he’s any worse off than Danny, who’s still trying to figure out how to position himself on the thin bench curving around the front side of the yacht. 

Finally Stiles does what all teenagers strive to do; he replicates his favourite porno. He pulls Danny to him by the leg, forcing him to roll over as he slides on the white faux leather. He hooks Danny’s right knee on his left shoulder and Danny understand enough to repeat the gesture with his left leg. Then Stiles angles his neck and goes to town. It’s as kickass as the porn’s made it seem, a rare feat. Motorboating just made him laugh, and pulling out to come on someone was the stupidest deprivation of sensation Stiles has ever dealt with, but rimming is untarnished by reality. 

With Malia’s drive for exhibitionism Stiles has gotten used to having sex as quietly as possible to minimise the risk. Danny couldn’t be more different than Malia, but the near-silence is the same. Either Danny really doesn’t want Tomas to hear, or he’s just naturally quiet. But the physicality of his reactions are making up for it in leaps and bounds. His body is practically screaming with enthusiasm. Stiles can feel Danny spasming, can feel the clenching and releasing. And it’s not just moving around his tongue. His glutes are squeezing against Stiles’ cheeks. His fingers are scratching on the bench seating. Even his legs are tightening on Stiles’ shoulders like big crab pincers.

Eventually Stiles pulls away. Danny’s hips instinctively try to follow, which is pretty damn great for his ego. He presses his left hand to his jaw to relieve the feeling for a moment, but doesn’t bother to wipe away the wetness covering the bottom half of his face. What’s the point? He’s not _done_. Besides, Danny’s working his abs, doing a half-sit up. Maybe he can see the glint of saliva in the moonlight. It’s probably a good look on him, Stiles always likes the pornos where they show you how wrecked the participants look after sex.

“Do you want me to rim you until you come, or do you want some hand action?”

Danny’s head flops against the seat with a low thunk. “Your dirty talk is seriously-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. F minus for effort. Answer the question.”

“Do whatever. I don’t care. Just don’t stop doing it.”

Stiles can work with that. He puts on hand back on Danny’s ass to help keep him open, but the other he uses to jerk Danny off. It takes a bit of split attention, but if there’s anyone in Beacon Hills who’s mastered the combination of multi-tasking and hyper focus, it’s him. God bless ADHD and God bless Adderall.

Danny’s come gets everywhere when he orgasms. Stiles has seen a _lot_ of comeshots since figuring out that part of the internet, and Danny belongs to what Stiles mentally considers Category B: the guys who come long, thin, and nearly clear. His own is whiter, thicker, but Danny’s smells the same, and would probably taste the same. And hey, at least if it’s clear the fact that Stiles is pretty sure some got into his hair doesn’t really matter.

Danny’s legs drop off Stiles’ shoulders and his heels hit the shinrest of the bench with two quiet thuds. He pushes himself up on one elbow, and for a brief moment Danny’s basically straddling Stiles’ face before he swings himself all the way over him. Stiles takes the hand when it’s offered, even though he’s not quite sure where they’re going.

Turns out it’s only as far as a towel draped over ...something. This side of the yacht isn’t glowing under the moonlight, and it’s not like Stiles knows what most things on a boat are called. He stands still under Danny’s attentions, which are mostly rubbing his face dry. He can’t talk with a mouthful of terrycloth, but once Danny’s done Stiles flashes the cockiest grin he can and says “Okay now _that_ I could do all the time.”

“That you should do all the time,” Danny agrees. “It’s your calling.”

“I actually have bigger plans than being a prostitute, but thanks I guess.” It’s a pretty sweet compliment, if you look at it the right way. “So do you wanna blow me or something?” They didn’t really negotiate the reciprocation before jumping in, but it seems like a fair trade. It’s oral stuff for oral stuff, after all.

In response Danny shoves the palm of his hand on Stiles’ zipper. Which, pathetically, completely does him in. His buckets and buckets of experience with Malia should have made him better than that, but the evidence cooling in his underwear says no. Stiles is going to blame being supremely stoked about the rimming. He’s not a sad gay-side virgin. His dick was just giving him a high five about rimming being as great as he’d imagined it to be.

Danny smirks. “There. Now you can sing Jizz In My Pants too.”

Stiles is stuck between annoyance and laughter. It’s a sexual cop-out, but it’s also one step closer a bucket list checkmark. And again, it’s not like they negotiated Danny doing something spectacular in return. “Thanks, there, buddy-o-pal.”

“If you wanna do this again before you go back, you can text me,” Danny says, smiling.

“What if I just want you to show me and Scott some famous statue or bridge or something?”

“Oh my God. Go away. Seriously, how are you always like this?”

Stiles darts in for his first kiss and then dashes down the side of the boat before Danny can lay down any more of a verbal smackdown. One day Danny will wanna hang out with him. He’s got a ten year plan for it, just like he does for dating Lydia. And now that he’s crossed off rimming, maybe he should add a him-Danny-Lydia threesome to the list. That definitely counts as an awesome goal he’d want to attain before he dies.

**Author's Note:**

> Title's a line from, what else? I'm On A Boat.


End file.
